This New World
by psquare
Summary: A hundred years to the day after Death restored his soul, Sam Winchester wakes up. Things have changed. AU, Outside POV.


_ **A/N:**_ This was written for **de_nugis**' prompt at the horror comment fic meme over at **sharp_teeth**: A hundred years to the day after Death restored his soul, Sam Winchester wakes up. Things have changed.

**Warnings: **Mild spoilers for Season 6? Maybe? Lots and lots of blood, gore, disturbing imagery.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

**_This New World_**

He keeps telling you fantastical things.

_There are holes in the walls_, he says. _And monsters in these holes. They keep clawing. They're trying to break free, you see._

_And then? They kill you?_

He grins, yellow teeth glinting in the dim light, and shakes his greasy head. _Nope. You eat them. And they grow inside of you_.

And he laughs.

* * *

><p>You can't stop visiting him.<p>

He lives in a tiny loft about six hundred feet from the ground – one of those self-contained houses-in-the-sky deals. God knows you'd rather keep your feet on the ground – well, on the several layers of concrete that cover the ground, but you're not _that_ picky – but there's something that keeps pulling you back to those ridiculous elevators, that head-spinning, gut-wrenching ride to the madman who lives in the sky.

Maybe it's his eyes, you think, watching idly as he carves yet another symbol into an already-pockmarked floor. They're a curious shade of murky green, half-hidden by a strong brow, under elegantly slanting eyebrows. In a face that's so thin the skin cleaves to the bone underneath, criss-crossed by several white scars, the eyes speak of _life_. This man lived once, you think, lived like he should have.

_Who are you_, you asked once. Just once.

He grinned again. He's always possessed of a sort of manic mirth. _The man who killed you all_.

_Oh, is that all? I guess you weren't very successful at it, then._

A tilt of the head. _That's what you think_.

* * *

><p>He goes away a lot. He never locks his door; sometimes you creep in to find the floor half-covered in salt, pooling in the crevices carved meticulously into the wooden floor. He copies these symbols in blood on the walls, on the ceiling. Yellowed, rotting books line three of the four walls; insects and lizards crawl in the gaps between the dusty, ancient spines. There's no kitchen, no sign of food anywhere except for all the salt.<p>

You take all of this in with a sort of disgusted fascination; maybe it's because he's a mad-man who actually fits the description, unlike the mad men who crowd the streets.

Once he bursts back in while you're there to finally attempt taking one of those _books_ down. He's covered in blood: it drips from long gashes down his forearms, spurts from underneath the hand he's got clamped over his side, from his lips and forehead and –

Both of you stare at each other for a moment before he collapses like one of those giant redwood trees you remember seeing in old documentaries. For all that his skin hangs off his bones, he is still ridiculously tall; the floor trembles upon impact.

You fall to your knees next to him, feel the blood soaking through your pants, and turn him over. _So much blood_ – your hands flutter over the horrific wounds, and you just don't know what to do – for god's sake, you don't even know his _name_. Somehow you think, 'Mad Man in the Sky' is just not going to cut it.

_De – De – _he moans, tossing his side from side to side. _Deeeeeee—_

You try to shush him; try to stroke a wasted, bloody cheek; anything to soothe the agony in that call. It pulls at your heart like a baby animal's last call for its mother. _Shh. It's going to be okay. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere—_

Suddenly his eyes open and his hand grabs yours in an iron grip. And his _eyes_ –

—they're _yellow_, the pupils slits like he's a _snake_, and—

—he _grins_. Bits of meat and sinew are caught between his blood-coated teeth.

(_you eat them. and then they grow inside of you_.)

You shake his hand off and run. He doesn't move.

* * *

><p><em>How old are you?<em> you ask him one day.

To your surprise, he actually pauses to consider the question, putting down the old knife he's been sharpening, brow furrowing. _A hundred and thirty-five, I think_, he tells you in all seriousness. _Although—if you wanted to be more accurate, it should probably be somewhere closer to two hundred and fifty._

_That's uh, interesting. What did you do for all these hundreds of years?_

He lowers his head. His long, greasy hair falls into his eyes. _Slept, mostly. I think_.

There's a rare vulnerability about him in this moment, and you can't help but move closer. _And when you woke up?_

He looks up at you. _Everything had changed_.

You move closer, closer, until his breath blows hot against your skin, the stench of old blood and rotting meat coiling in the space between you and him that gets shorter and shorter and shorter—

_Maybe that's not such a bad thing_, you say and press your lips against his. He responds to the kiss with startling ferocity; his hands grip your head and his teeth suck at your lip and he—tastes of Death, of decay and wrongness and it is the most wonderful thing you've ever experienced.

He pulls away, and you stare at him, panting.

_Maybe not_, he says, smiling, and fresh blood drips from his mouth.

* * *

><p><em>One day<em>, he says, _one day you will be remembered_.

_For what?_ you ask, running one hand lazily over his bare chest as you lie next to him. There's blood on your hands, you note. There's always blood when he's around you, inside you. You don't know how much of it is his and how much is yours but just that you're sharing it with him – _blood_, the only thing he cares about – fills you with excitement.

_For being the first_, he says softly, _the first in the grand new world I will create_.

_Is that so?_ You nuzzle at his shoulder and laugh. _A new world? When will you start?_

_I began a hundred years ago_, he says, rubbing your naked back, _but perhaps I need to speed things up a little bit_.

You prop your head up on your elbow and smile at him. _And how are you going to do that?_

He doesn't answer, and you feel a cold gust of wind at your back. You turn to find long shadows creeping across the wall, willowy figures with long arms ending in hooked claws. You climb out of bed, bunching the sheets around you, backing away. _What—?_

There's a flash of _something _in his eyes – not the life and sophistication you first thought you saw, or the reptilian yellow that should've repulsed you, but _sadness_, an ancient regret, like he's trying to apologise but forgotten how to—

It lasts for but a second, and he smiles. _I love you,_ he says.

Lines of fire flash down your back as claws split you open; you scream and bleed and bleed and bleed.

And he laughs.

_**Finis**_


End file.
